January 28

comments 4
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This pigeon could be
a dove but for its
dull asphalt plumage
and oil-slicked neck
either a proud bruise
or thumbprint or defect–

it could never be
Aphrodite’s pet

but its dolent call
still seems somehow
sacred

having traded
sky and olive for
the Underworld
of a parking garage–

level two to be
precise where the pipe
leaks and no one parks
in the Acheron–

it doesn’t judge
just paces the empty
ill-lit spots and says
how they are hollow

the answer
it gets back
is just an echo
it must not know
at least I hope
it doesn’t

if anything
it’s just a soul
without a coin
to buy passage on

and it’s forgotten
how to fly

as down here
where would it
fly to?

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4 Comments

  1. I can tell I will want and need to re-read this several times (at least) to fully understand it, and to appreciate all the nuances, references, and word-play used. But that’s not a problem, because this is a pleasure to read! I very much enjoy the diction and rhythm of your writing, thank you for sharing.

    Like

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